Saturday, June 27, 2009

How many times can I break till I shatter?

Saturday Night. 8:45 PM. I’m sitting on my balcony, alone, with nothing but a six pack of Red Stripe to keep me company. It’s finally not raining and I’m thankful I can see the sky and feel a completely unseasonal cool breeze. I’m positive there are things I could be doing and friends I could be hanging out with, but somewhere in the chaos of New York it feels nice to be alone and not speak with anything but my fingertips.

I don’t regret much, but I do regret my mouth and my heart and the world of hurt they’ve both brought raining down upon me in the past month. If I could un-love him I would. If I could find a way to be happy just being his friend I would, too. It was a long hard fall, learning I’d once again misread the signs and given my full self to someone who neither wanted nor deserved it. So I’ll open up to you, Cyberspace, and apologize to the Universe for the tangled mess I’ve become. I have completely unraveled.

One year ago and a few days ago, Lori was here. (Lori is now pregnant and in Georgia – two things I both love for her and hate for me.) One year ago, I made the promise I make every year – that this was finally going to be my year and I’d finally conquer this whole love thing. One year ago, I honestly believed that by the time I reached the point I’m at right now, I would no longer be alone. Lori rolled her eyes and reminded me that I say that every year.

Birthdays stop being fun when you start to approach your scary age. 27 is my scary age. It now looms a short 5 days away, and Unraveled Alison must now step up to the plate and admit she is not where she wants to or thought she’d be. In all fairness, I am at least things I never thought I’d be and I won’t apologize for or doubt my successes, wherever they may lie.

When 27 arrives, I will make no promises. I will tell no one that this will finally be my year. I won’t open up my heart or gently place it on my sleeve for the universe to locate its partner. I am not going to let myself believe that I am actually any different than any of the other lost souls out there, hoping to figure it all out before it’s too late. My time will come when God is good and ready to give it to me, and no wishes placed on burning candles will ever change that.

This year I’ll only swear on the things I can deliver. I’ll be a better boss, a better daughter, a better neighbor, a better roommate, a better friend, and a better Alison. I won’t be selfish, but I will be self-aware. I’ll make the time anyone spends in my presence as pleasant, good-natured, and fun as possible. I may have done nothing wrong, but I sure don’t feel like I’ve done much right, either.

27 may be my scary year, but the world isn’t going to stop turning because I’m uncomfortable. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Monday, June 22, 2009

This ain't no love that's guiding me

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Today at work, an older gentleman approached my desk. We got to talkin', and I couldn't help myself from inquiring about his thick Southern drawl. (Afterall, a girl from Alabama must find her people in this world.)

"Where you from, sir?" I posed.

"Baby. I'm from Bowlin' Green, Kentucky!"

(And though I'm usually not a fan of being referred to as "baby," especially by complete strangers, he was at least charming about it.) This lead to a whole discussion of all things Southern, and therefore all things good. He looked down and noticed my empty left ring finger.

"Baby, you single!" (It was definitely more of a statement than a question, even though I kind of believe things like that should be approached a liiiiiiittle more cautiously.)

"Let me see your palm." A demand, this time. I held out my left palm and he shrugged it off, motioning for my right. After a brief once-over, his face lit up as he marked with pen on my hand.
"See this? It should be up here. It's not. This tells me you are a very positive person. People whose lines go all the way up are ho-hum and hum-drum. You are not. Even when you're sad, you still remain positive."

I think I may have had to blink back a couple tears. My clouded expression probably didn't help my case.

"See that? Even now, you're sad about something but it don't matter - you're still just as positive as you can be."
Another pen mark, this time in the bottom center.
"Oh, and you're a healthy girl."

I, of course, muttered something under my breath about that ending with my healthy appetite.

Mr. Kentucky then tried to bid me adieu.

"Wait!" I pleaded. "You asked to see my hand because you seemed interested in the love side of things. What does my palm say about that?"
(Really, Alison? An old man reads your palm, tells you you're healthy and positive and now you're going to seek love advice from him?)

Relunctantly, he gathered my hand in his once more.
"Baby. You ain't got no love."

There we have it. I ain't got no love.

"This here hand is always changin', just like you," he continued. "But I wouldn't really be lookin' for much of anything there for another 6 or so months."

Given the things that have gone down in the past 3 weeks, he's absolutely right. And for some bizarre reason, I actually feel better. I have a timeline. Six months. I can't even begin to understand why, but perhaps these things happen for a reason. Perhaps my heart is currently shattered for some just cause and perhaps God sent me Mr. Kentucky today as some kind of messenger of things to come.

Baby, you ain't got no love.

But I'm positive that someday, I will.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Somethin' tells me I'm into somethin' good

Onto the next adventure!

This weekend, I decided it was high time I abused my job to all new heights. As in, 2000 feet in the air. So on Sunday afternoon, Megan, Jeff, Danielle and I hopped into a helicopter and went soaring over New York City. It was...breathtaking and remarkable and I loved every second. (As evidenced by the mouth agape in every. Single. Picture.)


Monday, June 1, 2009

Calling out, somebody save me, I feel like I'm fading.

It's June 1st.
A new week, a new month, and a beautiful day at that.
I've always liked June 1st, because after June 1st comes July 1st, and after July 1st comes my birthday. And I love the new hope that each birthday brings because my curious self can't ever help but wonder if this will be the year I've been waiting for.

Perhaps I will approach 27 with a little more caution and tact than the previous 26 years, but something tells me the only thing I've ever gotten good at is being Alison which is to say, probably not. Alison does not reign it in, and Alison certainly does not bottle. Sometimes I wish I was better at these things, as a little control and a little mystery really never did anyone any harm.

My best friend once told me my life is a bad country song. I didn't believe her until now. I mean, if your life has to be a country song, one could at least hope it was a badass one like a Johnny Cash or a Patsy Cline. Nope. My life is of the bubble-gum country persuasion. Taylor Swift probably sings my song, and millions around the world delight in the tedium as it blasts through the airwaves. My life is Soap Opera Network, when I would really prefer Comedy Central.

(My best friend is honest and also right, and I wouldn't be much of anything without her and I typed the last paragraph as an attempt to return to my funny. Please take it as such.)

My best friend also gave me the most sound advice I've ever gotten today.

...but don't hold on the present hoping for the future

Hows about I just start holding the future accountable for all I know it will be, instead?

It's clear this conversation
Ain't doin' a thing
Cause these boys only listen to me when I sing
And I don't feel like singing tonight
All the same songs

Here, in these deep city lights
Girl could get lost tonight
I'm finding every reason to be gone
Nothing here to hold on to

Could I hold you?

(Sara Bareilles)